


Horology

by Social_Hemophilia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, basically everyone is in a relationship with each other though not everyone has a sex scene, tagging for poly relationships is stressful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Social_Hemophilia/pseuds/Social_Hemophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he's selfish and loving them is terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horology

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful cheerfuldisposition. Dear, thank you for introducing me to the Dresden Dolls <3 If I write a crazy circus AU, it'll totally be on you.

“What is this?”

 

“What is what, Tony?”

 

“This. Did you,” Tony brings out a box of lights from the bag, “oh my god Steve, did you buy _Christmas_ lights?

 

“It _is_ Christmas, Tony.”

 

Steve takes the box from Tony’s hands, starts taking out the lights.

 

“Hey, Steve, where do you want the tree?” Comes Clint’s voice from the elevator. Tony turns to see Clint and Thor carrying an eight foot long Christmas tree. Bruce and Natasha are trailing behind them, shopping bags in their hands.

 

Tony points an accusing finger at the tree. “No, you are NOT bringing that in here, Barton.”

 

“Why don't we put it over here guys,” Steve says, pointing to a corner where glass meets the living room wall.

 

“Aye, Captain,” Thor says before adjusting his grip on the tree and walking on.

 

“ _Steve._ ”

 

“Yeah, Tony?” he says, fingers busy untangling and stretching out the light cords. Tony wants to throw something at him.

 

“Steve, I don't do Christmas. You _know_ I don't do Christmas, it’s meaningless, not to mention bullshit. So, I am going to ask one more time. What the fuck is this?”

 

“Tony,” Steve says turning to face Tony. “This is the first Christmas Bucky has been back.”

 

“So? I doubt he’s celebrated it in over seventy years. He probably doesn’t even miss it—or care.”

 

“Stark you may as well get used to the idea. Steve practically bought out the entire Christmas section,” Natasha says.

 

“Tony, Bucky is excited about this. He’s even out right now doing part of his Christmas shopping with Sam,” Steve says. “I don’t think he’s celebrated Christmas—or any holiday—since the war.”

 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Tony runs a hand over his hair, grips the ends. “I am not participating in this, Steve, I refuse to. So you all decorate _my_ tower and do your little secret santa—just know I’m out of it,” he says and stalks out of the common room.

 

Clint emits a low whistle. “And I thought I had issues with the holidays.”

 

OoO

 

Tony is down in his workshop, rocking out to AC/DC’s latest release as he loses himself in lines of code when his lockdown is overridden and his music muted.

 

“I knew it was a bad idea to give all of you your own override code.” He doesn’t bother turning around. He keeps on typing and wonders if the current suit could sustain these upgrades or if he should make a new suit instead.

 

“Yeah, for a genius you sure have the dumbest ideas, pal. The others said you locked them out, overrode their overrides. So, did you just forget about me or did you want me to come?”

 

“Oh, I always want you to come,” he says, swirling his chair around to face his visitor. “And I’d worry about _you_ forgetting _me,_ Barnes.”

 

“You’re a real riot, Stark,” Bucky says. He looks around the workshop and noting the lack of destruction perches himself atop the desk, mindful of the cold, half-filled coffee mugs laying around.

 

Tony smirks, but his lips draw into a thin line once he remembers why Bucky is here.

 

“So.”

 

“So.”

 

Bucky eyes him, his soft blue eyes intent upon Tony’s own. His gaze is pensive, sympathetic—eyes so unlike those of the Soldier.

 

“I get it, you know, why you hate Christmas, why you don’t celebrate any major holidays. Well, besides by partying and going on a drunken weekend bender. Stevie doesn’t, but I do.”

 

“Someone’s been doing their reading.” Tony’s right hand fingers curl and he thinks he could kill for a tumbler of scotch right now. He is too sober for this conversation.

 

Bucky shrugs. “Just catching up on the important things.”

 

Tony snorts. “Come on, out with it Barnes. What makes you such an expert on Tony Stark?”

 

“Never claimed I was an expert. I’ll leave that title to the others.” Bucky huffs a breath and stares down at the fingers of his metal arm, no longer the Weapon. He draws his hand over his jeans and revels in the new sensation. “I know you know,” he says, proud his voice didn’t waver.

 

“Know what?”

 

“About your parents. How they died…what I did.”

 

“ _You_ didn’t do anything.”

 

Bucky’s smile is brittle, the lines of his mouth a map of his grief.

 

“That doesn’t change the fact you live with the guy who killed your folks.”

 

Tony’s heart increases its pace. He has to hold his breath for a minute. He’s known for months, but hearing it never got any easier. “I’m sure dear old dad would be rolling in his grave, knowing I’ve been hooking up with the legendary Sergeant Barnes.”

 

Bucky laughs and the knot in Tony’s chest loosens.

 

“Tony,” he scolds. He swears trying to have a serious conversation with a Stark is like trying to get Steve to back down from a fight. “I’m trying to have a serious talk here, pal. You don’t want Stevie to blow a fuse do you?”

 

“Ugh, tell me, was he always this much of a mother hen?”

 

Bucky shakes with barely contained laughter. “Oh yeah, though now he can physically put you to bed when you’re being a punk.”

 

“Pretty sure no one in their right mind would mind Cap tossing them in bed,” Tony says, heat pooling in his groin at the image the thought procures.

 

“Of course they wouldn’t.” Bucky runs the fingers of his flesh hand through Tony’s hair and gently tugs. “You’re deflecting.”

 

Tony picks up a wrench and twirls it. “Fine. Out with it, Barnes, regale me with your Tony Stark encyclopedia-like wisdom.”

 

“I watched, for a year. Before I…you know. I remember you. Thought it was strange. You were the richest kid in the country and you were alone. I guess that long without being wiped or frozen”—Bucky shrugs—“you reminded me of me then. There aren’t plenty of chances to socialize when you’re Hydra’s weapon. The chattiest handler I ever had was Rumlow. I watched _you_ for a year and they would leave you, whenever they got the chance. During every holiday they would take off on some vacation—Paris, Milan, Amsterdam, London, Athens—and leave you behind. I remember when you made Dummy, how you finished him in the middle of the night, how excited you were. I remember when your parents came back and you didn’t bother to show them, but showed Jarvis.”

 

Tony wishes Bucky would shut the hell up, wishes he had also locked him out, doesn’t even remember what he was thinking. Idiot. Tony feels warmth spread down his chin and realizes its blood. His lip is bleeding.

 

Tony feels the blood go down his chin and thinks, fuck it. He kisses Bucky, determined to erase the far away look in his eyes, determined to make him shut up, forget this whole conversation. Tony is desperate and Bucky groans and Tony is standing up between Bucky’s legs, gripping his thighs.

 

When they pull apart they are both panting hard and their mouths are bloody, teeth red, chins smeared with blood.

 

“Tony,” Bucky tries, but Tony pulls him closer, runs a hand under his shirt, splays his fingers on the heat trapped beneath skin, and smashes their lips together.

 

Tony toes his shoes off, unbuttons Bucky’s pants, and tugs on Bucky’s shirt. Bucky gets the message. He licks the inside of Tony’s mouth, swallows his taste, puts a flat palm on Tony’s chest, right over the arc reactor, and pushes the other man away. Tony stumbles before his eyes register Bucky taking off his shirt, standing up, toeing off his shoes, and tugging off his pants.

 

He wastes no time in doing the same. Tony moves to unbutton his jeans, but Bucky catches his wrists in one hand and wipes the blood off Tony’s chin and mouth with a white rag. His movements are gentle, a lover’s soft caress. Tony tenses, holds his breath, but the words don’t come and he relaxes, leans into Bucky’s touch.

 

“You got lube and condoms down here?” Bucky asks.

 

Tony nods, jerks his head to the top drawer attached to the desk. Bucky kisses him, a gentle press of lips, frees his wrists to get the supplies. Tony pulls his pants down the rest of the way, yanks them off, lets his boxers fall to the floor. He appreciates the bare view before him, focuses on Bucky’s bare ass, and not on the last words his parents said.

 

He squeals when Bucky yanks him back, presses him against the desk until he’s sitting on the edge, the cold on his warm skin making him gasp into Bucky’s blood stained mouth. Bucky stands between his legs and they are now a mirror version of their previous selves and Tony thinks its fitting, how they are mirrors of each other, how they each make up Steve’s before and his after. How when they are together like this they are Steve’s grounding force. Not his past, not his future, but his present. Always his present.

 

They get together and Tony imagines they are breaking laws, breaking physics.

 

They get together and they are untethered by systemic strings, they are free, energy blazing through the world, indestructible. Immortal.

 

Bucky stretches him and Tony gasps, accommodates cool metal fingers, and pushes down, seeks more because he is nothing if not a hedonist, a selfish glutton for pleasure.

 

He bites down on Tony’s lip and Tony moans, feels the blood welling up, but not down because Bucky swallows him whole. Bucky kisses Tony and its like he’s trying to consume him, tangle their molecules together and create a new compound, a new element.

 

Bucky kisses Tony and thinks he wants to _keep him_. Forever. He thinks he wants Tony as much as he wants Stevie and feels the familiar burn of protectiveness pool in his gut when he thinks of the mad genius panting beneath his hands.

 

Bucky’s sweat slicked fingers wrap around his length and Tony is at the edge. He is at the edge of everything and nothing, feels like his feet are toeing the edge of oblivion and Tony thinks, if this is what oblivion feels like I’ll gladly fall into its depth, _fuck._ The fingers on Tony’s length twist and tug and Tony struggles not to fall, to hold out, tries to put together a coherent thought, but then Bucky removes his cool fingers, removes his warm hand, and Tony is consumed with burning want.

 

Tony’s lids are at half mast, gaze hazy with lust. He pulls Bucky in by his neck for a slippery kiss, tastes copper in his mouth and thinks, fuck it, if he wants Christmas, he’ll get Christmas, he’ll buy him everything he could possibly want, he'll let him decorate the tower in flashy lights, Tony just wants to _keep this._

 

Eyes closed, Bucky fumbles with the condom, slips it on, and takes a moment to squeeze the base of his erection, lean his head against Tony’s to keep himself from coming. But then Tony wraps his hand around him and tugs him forward, demand and need in every move.

 

Bucky pushes in and curses, because shit, Tony is _tight_ and _hot._

Bucky pushes in and Tony groans, lets his body shudder, lets himself lean back on the desk, lets his legs push Bucky closer, lets himself welcome him in.

 

Bucky bottoms out and Tony opens his eyes, drags Bucky down for a bloody kiss, presses against the fingers gripping him hard enough to bruise.

 

Bucky bottoms out and Tony sees _it,_ sees _them_. He watches how the curve of their bodies break the lines of the universe, how they are the past and the future melding together creating the present. Bucky pulls back only to push back in, _hard_ , and Tony cries out, lets his fingers grip whatever they can, skin, desk, it doesn’t matter.

 

A fast, hard pace is set and Tony feels himself atop a precipice, feels the vast void beneath. Tony thinks of falling, of the first time he went out flying, of how the suit froze, and his body went into free fall. He thinks of the drop in his stomach, the shifting of gravity, the pull towards the ground and he thinks, this feels like that, except he isn’t worried about falling because Bucky will be there to catch him. He tries to tell Bucky this, even opens his mouth, but Bucky leans down to kiss him, digs his fingers in harder, and slows his pace to a slow _grinding_ and Tony can’t talk. Tony can’t talk because every time Bucky _grinds_ _down_ he’s rubbing up against that spot inside of him that fragments his mind and before he realizes he’s crying out, god yes, harder, please, and _god Bucky._

Tony babbles, cries out, and Bucky just grips him harder, sets out to lick, nip, and bite down on every available surface of skin. Bucky tells Tony he’s beautiful like this, that next time they fuck he should install a mirror in the ceiling so they can see themselves, see the way his body curves over Tony, the way Tony’s back is a beautiful arch, lips so red because of the blood.

 

Bucky grinds down and that’s it, Tony’s lost, he’s falling, and falling, his breath coming in and out in fast gasps. He hears Bucky say, “There Tony, shit just let go,” but it’s hazy, the void is beautiful, the fall is everlasting, and the warmth that has been pooling in his gut spreads out everywhere.

 

Tony squeezes around him and Bucky cries out, can’t hold himself any longer, and lets go, lets everything go. Bucky slams into Tony hard enough to shift the desk and kisses whatever skin he can find, thinks if he could melt them together he would. He stares down at Tony, the ever gorgeous sight of him coming down from a post fuck high and thinks how much he loves him, how grateful he is Stevie found this confounding genius.

 

Sometimes, Bucky thinks, looking at Tony is like staring at his own reflection and Bucky doesn’t know what to do all of the sudden. He feels adrift, but Tony is running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands, until Bucky shifts, gives him the demanded kiss. Their mouths are red, their teeth bloody. Tony has blood dried on his chin, his cheeks, parts of his chest, and along his legs. Bucky touches the side of his neck and his fingers come away red.

 

For a moment he wants to ask, but then Tony is grinning his self satisfied smirk, so Bucky just grins back, lets a chuckle slip from his lips.

 

“I love you,” Bucky says.

 

Tony laughs, but his eyes are bright, soft. “I love you, too. Now can you get off, you’re pretty heavy here, Barnes.”

 

“I am a supersoldier, Tony,” he deadpans.

 

Tony chuckles, makes to push him away, but Bucky stops him because they are still attached. Past, present, future. He slips out of Tony making the genius groan and helps Tony sit up a bit. He kisses him again, licks the blood off his lips.

 

He grabs Tony’s chin and examines him. “I don’t think your lip needs stitches. Try not to bite it off again, though. The others are going to think I beat you something good. It’s going to swell.”

 

“I can always tell the truth. You’re secretly a vampire with a blood fetish and we had really hot, kinky sex they all missed out on.”

 

Bucky snorts. “Please.”

 

Tony moves to get off the desk, but Buck holds him off, keeps him in place. The genius eyes him, but before he can say a word Bucky cups his cheek, meets his gaze. Chocolate brown meets sky blue and Bucky tells him what he wishes Tony would no longer doubt.

 

“None of us are going anywhere, Tony. Not without you.”

 

All Tony can do is nod, because he _knows_. Tony’s parents may have fucked up his view and expectations of relationships, but he knows this. They would scour and scorch the earth for each other. They _have_ scoured and scorched the earth for each other. 

 

None of this is the problem, but he will let Bucky think it is because the real problem has no viable solution. The real problem is reality and for all Tony thinks his team could bend the laws of the universe to suit them, he doesn’t think they can fix this. It just is, or was going to be.

 

Tony knows the clockworks of time and there is nothing he can do, but wait and endure.

 

So Tony lets Bucky pull him in without a word to kiss him once more, mindful of the split in his lip.

 

They dress in silence, trading soft, lingering touches, fingers skimming over fingertip shaped bruises.

 

"You might want to go pack, we're going camping," Bucky says, buttoning Tony’s pants, taking a moment to run his hands down Tony’s sides.

 

"It's the middle of December."

 

"It's for Thor, before he heads out," Bucky says over his shoulder and walks out.

 

OoO

 

It's five days to Christmas and Tony is sitting on a wooden log in the middle of a forest preserve surrounded by nature, his boots cushioned in snow. At least his lips are numb. The swelling from his bite has gone down and his lip no longer throbs in pain. He has a lovely scab.

 

Tony sits back, sips his beer, and watches as his teammates gather enough wood to start a fire. The night sky is riddled with stars and Tony would never admit it to anyone, but their light is beautiful. The waves of starlight are those of the past and Tony was in awe of this when he was a child, still is.

 

Tony watches the way the moonlight finds the spaces between the trees, falls over his team, his family, sees the way the light makes Thor’s hair look lighter, whiter.

 

He thinks of the first time he ever went camping, out with Rhodey and Pepper. He thinks of how they all slept in one big tent, how they sat in silence, their faces illuminated by fire. He thinks of how they looked up at the stars through Pepper’s telescope and Tony marveled at the complexity of the universe, the non-linearity of time. There he stood feet planted in his present, gazing out at the light of the past.

 

When Tony was six years old, he wanted to be an astrophysicist.

 

Between reverse engineering microwaves, dismantling computers, and building circuits, Tony read about the stars. He read about galaxies, about how humans were in the Milky Way, how the Andromeda was the closest one to them, learned the two were bound to collide in a few billion years, a blinding clash of past, present, and future. He learned about the Pillars of Creation and how all stars went supernova at the end. He learned their sun would eventually die and spent days waking up at dawn to make sure it rose once more, terrified one day it would not.

 

When Tony was eight years old, his father told him he should stop with the silliness and focus on taking over SI. So Tony stopped gazing at the stars and focused on building circuit boards.

 

When Tony was nine years old, he built his first rudimentary robot. His father never saw it.

 

"You know, you're not allowed to get drunk on this trip," Clint says, leaning against a tree.

 

Tony looks down at his half finished beer. "Wasn't planning on it."

 

“I get it, you know. Why you don’t know want to celebrate any of this, but you still let us drag you around. Bucky said he talked to you. I’m guessing he probably thought it was a family thing, right?”

 

“What’s your point, Clint?”

 

Clint shrugs, a simple lift of shoulders. “That time’s a bitch. A scary one.”

 

Tony huffs out a breath and downs the rest of his beer. He moves down the log, lets Clint fill the empty space beside him.

 

They sit in silence and Tony watches Steve kiss Natasha while Thor hangs a mistletoe above their heads. Sam and Bucky get the fire going and Tony can feel the warmth, leans towards it. He watches Bruce take out a tea kettle, fill it with water, and place it over the fire. He loses himself watching the flames lick the cast iron kettle and so fails to notice when Sam comes over, kisses Clint, sits on Tony's other side.

 

Tony turns towards Sam, smirks, “Don’t I get a kiss?”

 

Sam gives him a pointed look, says, “Your lip looks like you went a round with Muhammad Ali and lost.” His lips are a soft press against Tony’s own.

 

"Do you think about it a lot?" Tony asks out of nowhere.

 

Sam looks lost.

 

"I try not to," Clint says.

 

"Yeah, me too," Tony murmurs.

 

"Anyone mind filling me in?" Sam asks.

 

“Do you know how old Thor is?” Clint asks him.

 

Sam shrugs. “He’s a god, I assume he’s immortal. Probably been around since the beginning.”

 

“Closest thing to it, yeah,” Tony says.

 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Clint wonders.

 

“No. I made peace with death a long time ago,” Sam says.

 

Riley and his parents rise to Tony’s mind, their faces swimming among faceless others, and he wonders when the illusion of immortality is broken. When do children learn they are all going to die? When did he?

 

“It doesn’t bother you that a person you love is going to watch you get old, wither away, die, while they look forward to centuries? It doesn’t bother you that no matter what, you’ll be left behind?” Clint asks.

 

“Nothing I can do about that,” Sam replies.

 

Tony looks up at the stars, remembers the Pillars of Creation are now decimated dust. “It isn’t just Thor.”

 

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

 

“Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Bruce—they aren’t aging,” Tony says, shaking his head. “I don’t even think some of them have noticed it.”  

 

“Tasha knows,” Clint says.

 

Sam’s gaze travels and lands on the group sitting around the campfire. Bruce is laying between Thor’s legs, smoke rising from the cup in his hands. Steve and Bucky are leaning into each other in conversation, Natasha’s legs spread across their legs, her back resting against Thor. “I wondered about Steve and Bucky.” He stares wonderingly at them. “They still look like their war pictures. I never thought Natasha and Bruce weren’t, though.”

 

“Bruce has the Hulk,” Tony replies and Clint says, “Natasha’s like them, Steve and Bucky.”

 

They sit in silence for a while, watching their chosen family. At one point Steve catches Tony’s eyes and offers him a tentative smile. Tony blows him a kiss and smirks when he sees the beautiful red flush against pale skin. Thor throws a log into the fire making the flames cackle and Tony watches mesmerized as the flames follow the paths of the inscribed carvings.

 

“It’s terrifying,” Clint says and Sam nods.

 

“What is?” Tony asks, coming back to himself.

 

“Loving them all,” Sam says and Tony thinks, yes, it is.

 

He drops his head onto Clint’s shoulder, tangles his fingers with Sam’s, and listens when Thor begins to sing.

 

OoO

 

Tony’s tower is awash in garish light. Red, greens, and golden flashing lights hang from the ceiling of the communal room and somehow Steve enticed Pepper into changing the lights of the tower sign into flashy Christmas ones too. The ‘A’ even sported a flashy Christmas hat atop it. Tony blames Clint for that one.

 

There is an ocean of presents at the foot of the Christmas tree and Tony adds his to the pile. It’s 3:40am, Christmas Eve morning, the walls are illuminated in reds, greens, yellows, and Tony is standing in his—in _their—_ living room, staring at the tree in the corner as if it were an intruder.

 

“You’re up late.”

 

“I could say the same thing about you,” he says.

 

“The corporate world never sleeps,” she says and Tony huffs a breath.

 

“Tony,” she says, moving to stand beside him, lay a hand on his shoulder. He leans into her, lets her support the weaker parts of him.

 

“I never thought the great Tony Stark would ever come to desire permanence,” she says.

 

He smirks. “Neither did I.”

 

“I should get the suit and kick your ass.”

 

“I was wondering why you hadn’t already.”

 

“Steve thought it would go against the Christmas spirit.”

 

“Such a golden boy,” he huffs.

 

She gives a small laugh, runs a hand through his hair. They’ve moved to sit on the floor in front of the glass wall, watching the lights of the city flicker in their cheer. Tony looks up and notices the stars are barely visible, too much light pollution. 

 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you to enjoy things while they last. I shouldn’t have to tell you that no one is going anywhere,” she says.

 

“And yet, that’s exactly what you just did.”

 

“Not my fault that for a genius you have the attention span of a squirrel and need things repeated.”

 

“Pep,” he says, hand to his chest, “that is most certainly _not_ in accordance with the Christmas spirit. Steve would be appalled.”

 

“What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she says with a wink.

 

“Naughty,” he wags a finger at her. “Someone’s getting coal for Christmas.”

 

“Yes, you, for trying to take on the role of Scrooge.”

 

“I was thinking more the Grinch, my English accent isn’t what it used to be.”

 

“’96?” she asks, glancing over at him, head cocked.

 

“’96.” He grins.

 

“You did deserve it.”

 

He nods. “I do remember you saying I told you so.”

 

“Hmm, thought you were too drunk to remember.”

 

“Only bits and pieces, Pep. Just enough to remember not to do it again.”

 

“Good thing, I had been trying to train you out of it for the longest.”

 

“Train? I’m not a dog, Pep.”

 

“No. But you could use some severe behavior modification. Maybe then you’d remember to eat.”

 

“I remember to eat.”

 

“Every two days doesn’t count, Tony. If it wasn’t for Bruce you would die of starvation down in the workshop and no one would find you until the smell reached one of our floors.”

 

“I’m sure JARVIS would say something,” he says and JARVIS responds, “I most certainly would, Sir.”

 

“See,” Tony says.

 

“You’re ridiculous, Tony—“

 

“I’m always ridiculous.”

 

“—when’s the last time you slept?”

 

“Haven’t slept since Thor left.”

 

“You’re worrying for no reason.”

 

“He’s immortal,” he bites. “I’m not worried.” Except he is, a bit. Thor is off world, chasing after his brother, trying to catch up to him in order to celebrate. It was tradition, he said. But the last time they had come across Loki he shattered the ground beneath their feet, a building crushed Thor, and chaos and fire reigned.

 

She turns to him. “So that’s what this is about.”

 

“What’s what about?”

 

“Your sulking and Grinch-like attitude.” She looks out at the city lights. “I thought you knew, before you all started this.”

 

“Knowing and accepting are two different things,” he murmurs.

 

“They are,” she turns to him again, her green eyes are soft, reflecting the glint of the surrounding lights. “You can walk away from this. No one expects you to be able to handle it all.”

 

Tony shakes his head, he has no words, but she understands anyway. Because the thing is he can’t. He can’t untangle himself from them, can’t take back his body’s borders.

 

He doesn’t want to.

 

They’ve forged an unspoken union in metal and blood and Tony knows, “‘Till death do us part.”

 

Pepper gets up and comes back with pillows and blankets. “Brooding alone is bad for your health and you need to sleep,” she says and arranges the blankets and pillows, encasing them both in warmth.

 

Tony wraps an arm around her waist and continues watching the flickering lights.

 

OoO

 

Later in the morning, when the others see the remnants of their makeshift bed, Natasha says they should all sleep out in the living room that night. So they spend a couple of hours creating space, pushing the furniture to the edges of the room, covering the floor with all the blankets and pillows they can find.

 

Bruce cooks breakfast and makes his famous hot chocolate (a secret recipe Tony vows to one day steal), tops the mugs with the marshmallows Clint is in love with. Natasha, Clint, Bucky, and Sam play Mario Kart, throwing punches around whenever someone gets hit with a turtle shell. Pepper is curled up in the corner reading one of her beloved mystery novels. Tony is laying atop the blanket pile, staring at an upside down Bruce cooking in the reflection of the ceiling mirror, when Steve comes to lay beside his outstretched form. Their fingers tangle together and blue meets brown in the mirror. Tony can feel the heat radiating off of Steve and wants to burrow into it, but they’ve been awkward, tip toeing around each other since Steve brought a Christmas tree into the tower and Tony had his outburst.

 

“Do you regret it?” Steve asks and Tony knows he doesn’t mean his outburst.

 

Tony glances at him through his peripheral, thinks of fire and blood, metal cutting skin, thinks, “‘Till death do us part,” and tightens his hold.

 

“No.” Steve picks up their entangled hands, places them over his own chest. “Did Pepper talk to you?”

 

Steve chuckles. “She would never rat you out, that woman is a vault. Overheard you, Clint, and Sam at the woods.” He breathes in deep, as if preparing for battle and bracing for impact. “We know by the way. When he came back—Bucky—he said I looked the same as he remembered, identical. I looked at him and realized he looked the same as the day he fell from that train.” Tony doesn’t see the shrug, too busy staring at their entangled fingers, but he feels it. “Erskine said it was a possibility. We’ve talked about it, all of us.” Steve shifts, fingers tightening his hold. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why—”

 

Tony pushes himself up, stares down at Steve. “Because I’m selfish.”

 

Because they were going places Tony couldn’t follow. Because what they had wasn’t permanent, never had been, never would be, and Tony never knew how much he wanted it to be until now. Because what they had wasn’t normal, wasn’t conventional, superhero identities notwithstanding. Because what they had would one day be a memory, long forgotten, remembered in the arms of a new lover.

 

Because they were going somewhere and there was nothing to be done about it.

 

OoO

 

In the night, Tony emerges from his workshop and finds the common room is silent, except for the soft scratch of pencil against paper.

 

“Can I?” he asks, pointing at the sketchbook.

 

Steve hands it over without a word and Tony plops himself down beside him on the blankets.

 

Its the mirror image of them laying atop the blankets from earlier, entangled fingers resting on Steve’s chest, over his heart. Tony can even see Bruce’s shoes in the kitchen off to the side. He flips back a few pages and its all them, their faces on every page. Tony goes back to the beginning, compares and contrasts, sees the added lines engraved on his face.

 

“Tony,” Steve says, his voice whisper soft and Tony finds himself straddling Steve, looking down at sky blue eyes, the sketchbook tossed aside. “Don’t think about it.” Steve runs his hands over the skin of his stomach and Tony can’t help the shudder. “Let’s just enjoy this,” he says, his voice the warm breath ghosting over Tony’s throat, “enjoy now.”

 

Tony can’t think, so he does. He pushes down on Steve, swallows the returning groan, lets his tongue trace the inside of his mouth. He tugs off Steve’s shirt, secures his legs around his waist, lets Steve flip him on his back, lets him tug off his pants while he opens the drawer underneath the TV, grabs lube and a condom.

 

Steve looks down at him, an eyebrow quirked, says, “You’re such a Sex Boy Scout,” and that’s it, Tony’s gasping for breath, laughter flowing free as blood.

 

They undress the rest of each other, teasing at every chance. When Steve traces his entrance and pushes a finger in, his movements slow and careful, Tony thinks this wont be the angry makeup sex he anticipated between them.

 

Steve stretches him slow, first one finger, then two. All the while Tony writhes underneath him and Steve kisses the inside of his thighs, higher every time. When he pushes in a third, he swallows him down, making Tony moan, thrust up, because _fuck_ what a warm, wet mouth. Tony glances down, sees Steve’s blood red mouth around his length, threads his fingers through blonde hair. “If you keep this up—” he gasps, arching his back, and gripping the sheets—“I’m not gonna last.”

 

Because Steve is a secret sex fiend, he hums before pulling away and Tony fights to keep from chasing the heat.

 

Steve pushes down, pulling Tony up, and their atoms collide against each other, tiny explosive shocks reverberating through his body. Steve pushes in, balls deep, and Tony grips him, wraps his legs around him, entangles himself in him, in them. Tony pushes up, pushes his fingers into skin, lets Steve swallow his moan. They push and pull, entangle themselves further, and Tony can no longer tell whose limbs belong to who, whose breath is on whose neck, whose fingers grip whose skin.

 

They push and pull, and Tony can longer tell who’s pushing, who’s pulling.

 

They push and pull, and annihilate each other’s borders.

 

The world tilts.

 

Sweat slicks down the spaces between their bodies, pools around them, and Tony looks up, watches their entanglement in the reflective glass, the beautiful lines their bodies create. He looks up and watches their melded shadow, one big outstretched form rippling with them, an entanglement of each other.

 

Wet lips slip against his own and their bodies grind into each other, molecules mixing together. They groan, moan, gasp, and pant, all the while curling together, limbs pressing together, skin against skin, tethered together in heated metal and blood.

 

They slam into each other and spill into/onto each other, shuddering with the aftershocks, waiting for the world to realign.

 

Steve pushes down and Tony pulls up, letting their heartbeats settle.

 

Tonight, they will settle against each other, entangle all of their limbs under the blankets, and watch cheesy Christmas movies. Tonight, they will push and pull against each other, maybe tag team Natasha, and listen to Clint restlessly count down the hours until night fades into morning. Tonight, Tony will kiss Bruce, press into Sam, and think they are a collective supernova, outshining all around them.

 

Tonight, Tony will watch them sleep, hear their collective breaths, and feel their heartbeats.

 

Tonight, they will melt together and in the morning, when the sun rises in the east, showering them in light, they will wake, rub the sleep from their eyes, and tear wrapping paper apart. In the morning, Tony will watch the sky, wondering if this time Thor will come back, his brother in tow, instead of with empty hands. In the morning, Tony will sip a mug of Bruce’s hot chocolate topped with whip cream, sprinkled with marshmallows, and lick Clint’s white cream mustache off with a kiss.

 

In the morning, Tony will say, “’Til death do us part,” and be met with answering smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and, as always, I'd love your thoughts! Hope you all have a wonderful holiday and winter vacation! <3 If you follow Time to Rebuild, expect an update by the end of the month ;)


End file.
